Contact
by movieholic
Summary: His skin felt tight, pulled taut against his aching bones and straining muscles, as if every bead of sweat that rolled off his back was dehydrating his overworked body tenfold.


With a muffled curse, Michael stumbled up the stairway of his home, and nearly barreled headfirst into his closed bedroom door. With a throbbing, bloodstained hand, Michael gently grasped the cool metal knob and then took a deep breath. He gently pushed the door open, his calculating blue eyes scanning the bedroom for any signs of his wife.

"Aw, fuckin' A'," he groaned softly when he noticed the sleeping form in his bed. With bated breath, he toed off his shoes and half-crept, half-limped towards their bathroom.

With the door closed behind him, Michael flipped the bathroom switch and barely caught himself when his knees finally buckled in his exhaustion. He stumbled forward and fought a wave of nausea, his sweat-slicked skin scrabbling for purchase on the off-white porcelain sink. With a few deep breaths to steady himself, he finally looked into the mirror and tried to assess the damage.

His face was surprisingly unmarred, with only some bruises framing his stubbled jaw and a patch of crisscrossing scratches receding into his thick hairline. As he reached up to touch one of the scratches, to staunch the barely bleeding wound, he caught sight of his right fist and paused. The knuckles were swollen and stained in blood; some his own, most of it not. He gingerly flexed it, and was relieved to note that there didn't seem to be any broken bones.

It was then when the actions of his latest misadventures finally caught up to him, and he blindly reached out for something to support his suddenly heavy body. The room spun, and the humming static that had filled his ears before suddenly overwhelmed him with senseless white noise. He slumped against the toilet, absently thankful the seat was already down, and closed his eyes against the tier of blinding bulbs that illuminated the room. He inhaled slowly, held it, and then slowly released. Again, and again, until his stomach settled and his vision came back to focus.

"Jesus Christ," he moaned into his hands. They smelled like dirt, and blood, and death. He systematically began undressing, his mind on his new mission: removing the smell of carnage from his flesh. He turned the water in the shower on, stepped in before checking the temperature, and stood in the cold barrage in a state numbness.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally stepped out and toweled himself off. He toed aside the pile of clothes he had left on the floor, filled with too little energy to bother putting them in a hamper, and slipped out of the bathroom. He snatched a pair of boxers from their shared closet, flicked off all the lights, and then froze in the doorway that led into the bedroom.

Amanda was sitting up, her bleary eyes struggling to focus on her husband. "Michael?" she called out, her voice unsure and rough with sleep. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, baby," he replied, his voice equally harsh but for a different reason. He made his way to his side of the bed, trying to hide his limp, and if his wife noticed, she made no comment. He slipped underneath the covers, on his back, and stared at the ceiling. "I'm sorry for wakin' you. Go back to sleep."

She lay down, and turned on her side, her back to him. "Where were you?"

Michael took another deep breath, briefly thought about trying out her bullshit yoga routine, and released it. "Don't worry about it, baby."

He could hear her derisive snort, though muffled by her pillow, but opted not to comment on it. He closed his eyes and willed his heart to stop pounding against his ribcage. After a few minutes, and his heart not beating any less harder than before, Michael turned on his side with a soft groan. He didn't want to leave the warmth of the bed. He didn't want to leave the bedroom. He knew what he'd wind up doing, and he was sick of it. He was sick of lazing about on the couch, sick of drinking, sick of watching old films. He was just sick and tired of it all.

From his new position on his side, he got a view of his wife's dark mane of hair. It was tangled into a haphazard, loosely made bun, but thick tendrils outlined her upturned cheek. Michael reached out to touch it, hesitated, then continued. It was as soft as it looked, and warm from where it lay on her neck. He gently pushed it away and over her bare shoulder, her large shirt having slipped down, and tenderly stroked the back of her neck.

Amanda squirmed in her sleepy state. "Michael, I'm not in the mood," she grumbled. She felt him stop moving, and slowly pull his hand away, and she almost missed the touch. When she felt him shift, she assumed he was moving away from her, until she felt the weight of his body dipping towards the center of the bed. He pressed himself against her, his body slightly too warm, but the weight of him oddly comforting.

"Please," she heard him whisper.

Michael struggled against the lump in his throat. He closed his eyes, and pressed his slightly crooked nose into her inviting hair. "We," he murmured into the mess, his hot breath ghosting across her neck, "We don't have to do anything. You don't even hafta look at me, but please-" He hated the way he sounded like he was begging, but damn it all to hell, he was. "Please, just let me hold you, baby."

Her chest felt uncomfortably tight, and her voice was soft, almost cautious when she asked, "Really?"

"Yeah," he sighed, and she could feel the tension that he was holding in awaiting her response melt away as his body sagged against hers.

He snaked a strong arm around her midsection, and pulled her body tightly against his own. He nuzzled closer, and pressed a feathery light kiss on her shoulder. "Fuck," he mumbled, "I missed this."

There was a moment of quiet, before she whispered back, "Me too."

* * *

With a groan, Michael slowly came awake. He didn't need to look at a clock to realize that it was still very late, if not very early morning. The moon had shifted outside the window, casting a pale light that was barely visible through the half closed curtains.

Michael immediately felt the aches and pains in his body, but he tried to focus on something more important he noted instead. His wife. Sometime during his brief time sleeping he had once again found himself on his back, but instead of Amanda pulling away and distancing herself from his body, she had wrapped her right arm around his stomach and slung her right leg over his.

For all their fights, and problems, this moment sent a flutter of pure love in Michael's stomach. He tightly wrapped his arms around her supple body, relishing in the rare moment of human contact that didn't involve someone gasping for their last breath in the end. He hadn't realized that his movements had awoken Amanda, until the unmistakable feeling of smooth flesh caressing his bare side registered in his addled mind.

He tilted his chin down, opening his mouth to offer yet another apology, but the moonlight had lit up his wife's piercing eyes in a way that he'd never seen before. Or noticed. He couldn't seem to form words, shockingly enough for a man that was used to charming his way through life in that sense, and that realization struck Amanda in the noticeable way her right hand stroked up his side and over his slight paunch of a stomach.

Michael watched with half lidded eyes, unconsciously holding his breath as he waited for some snarky remark on his weight. But nothing came. Instead, Amanda's hand traveled further upward, splaying her slender fingers in the fine hairs that covered his broad chest. And still, it went further, until it lovingly cupped his bruise-mottled jaw and her thumb stroked the coarse stubble underneath.

"'Manda," he breathed, ignoring the catch in his throat. He caught her traveling hand with his left, savoring the feel of her smaller one in his, and pulled her arm down to place a kiss against her wrist. He closed his eyes, and almost believed that if he opened them again, he'd wake to find himself passed out on the couch.

However, the sudden shift in weight on the bed caused him to look and see what was going on. He watched as his wife silently pulled her shirt over her head, baring her bare chest to him without comment. She silently straddled his hips, her legs on either side of his, and leaned down to place a kiss against his jaw.

"Does it hurt?" she questioned, her blue eyes filled with genuine concern.

"Nah," he managed to reply. "I'm used to it."

She frowned, a cute little pucker of her lips and furrow of her immaculate brows, before delicately pressing her lips against his own. He wanted to say more, she wanted to ask more, but there was a mutual agreement they could see in each other's eyes.

No more words.

Michael carefully pulled himself up into a sitting position, pulling Amanda with him as he leaned against the headboard and plundered her mouth with his tongue. He felt like he was rediscovering her body all over again. He moaned into her mouth as her hands came behind his head, and sifted through his dark brown hair.

His hands, still throbbing in pain, were splayed against her back as he pushed her body as close as it could physically get to his own. They wandered up and down the expanse of her back, holding her body steady as she arched under his ministrations.

They kissed, enjoying the feel of being in one another's arms, until Amanda's hips started to move of their own violation against Michael's hip. She closed her eyes, and moaned, enjoying the feel of his strong thigh against her sensitive skin. She leaned down and gingerly bit his neck, relishing in the soft gasp he emitted, as she whispered, "Fuck me, Michael."

He froze at her words, and pulled his head back. His eyes bore into hers, as he vehemently shook his head. "No," he muttered. "I don't want to fuck. That's what those fuckin' pricks do with you." He pulled her down by her neck, and nibbled on her earlobe. He pressed a kiss against her neck, and ignored the way his hips bucked at the way her breath hitched. "I want to love you." His head tilted down, and his breath ghosted across her breasts. "I want to make love with you."

Michael wanted to ignore the tears that welled up in her eyes, but when the unmistakable wetness from her tears fell against his bare chest, he reached up with his hands and brushed them away. "I fuckin' love you, Amanda," he passionately insisted as he reached down with his left hand and parted the opening of his boxers to free his throbbing erection. His right hand, free of blood, stroked her cheek with a love he didn't think his fists were capable of anymore.

"I love you too," she said just as he parted her underwear and slipped inside her. They both cried out, trying to muffle their mutual pleasure by resuming their suddenly fierce kissing.

They began moving in sync, the familiarity of one another slowly beginning to come back to them as they moved together in a cacophony of grunts, groans, and moans. It didn't take long before the tunnel vision of pleasure overwhelmed Michael's overtaxed physique. His skin felt tight, pulled taut against his aching bones and straining muscles, as if every bead of sweat that rolled off his back was dehydrating his overworked body tenfold.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his hips bucking wildly up as his wife ground hers down. With a hoarse grunt, his body tensed with an almost painful wave of pleasure, as he came deep inside Amanda. As he fought through the onslaught of pain and pleasure, he felt her clench around his slowly softening cock and slump against his chest with a sharp cry. He lazily thrust in and out, coaxing her through her orgasm as his thighs still twitched from his own.

With a soft mewl, she carefully pulled herself away and let her body fall to the side. Without a word, lest he ruin the moment, Michael slid from the bed and through the closet. He snagged a towel, dampened it with warm water, and cleaned himself off. He grabbed another, and made his way back to the bed. Instead of tossing the cloth at Amanda, who was lying on her stomach and watching his movement with eyes that were barely open, he peeled the covers that hadn't been pushed to the side away and gently began to wipe Amanda down.

Satisfied that she was more comfortable, without word from her, he tossed the towel and pulled the covers over their bodies. She resumed her position against his side, her eyes fluttering as she struggled to not fall asleep, but Michael offered her a grin she couldn't see and kissed her temple.

"Go to sleep, sweetheart." He paused, unsure if he should add the next words, but he forged ahead and whispered, "Thank you." With a wince, he was prepared for Amanda to rear her head up and pound some sense into him, so he added, "Not for, y'know, the-"

"I know," she huffed kindheartedly.

"I meant for the- For allowing me to ho-"

"I _know_."

"I don't wanna cheapen-"

"Michael."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

"Okay."

With a final kiss atop of her head, Michael flexed his destructive hands against her smooth skin, and sighed. As his sated body drifted off into a comfortable state of sleep, Michael couldn't help but think that maybe they weren't so hurtful after all.

* * *

**The End.**

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